


verisimilis

by svgar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Future Fic, Gen, POV Stiles, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svgar/pseuds/svgar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles stops running.</p>
            </blockquote>





	verisimilis

 

Stiles is on a battlefield.

  
A few years ago, this field wouldn't have been a battlefield.  A few years ago, this field was nothing but a field—a flourishing one, with bright green blades of grass all clumped together, grinning, waving in synchronization under the just-the-right-temperature beams of sunshine raining down onto the earthy ground.  It would have had cheerful college students in love, students wearing casual spring-wear skipping up the slope, plaid picnic blanket and woven basket held tightly in the hands that weren't intertwined.  These students would have basked under the glorious heat by the shade of a cypress tree, charming one another with full-blown grins on their faces, giving up corny puns and jokes while watching the clouds shift in the firmament above.  
  
If none of this had ever happened, then Stiles might have had the opportunity to experience corny acts of love and sincerity.  There would have been a chance that he would have more time for other things like romance and entertainment and growing up at a reasonable pace.  There would have been a chance that Stiles would have found someone and kept that person, and they would have fallen in love and moved in together and raised children together and grown old together.  
  
That's what would have happened.  

It wasn’t like he didn’t have any romance in his life.  He did, but there had been too much supernatural business going on for him and his partner to focus on anything beyond, well, sex.  And comfort, but it was mostly physical.  There were emotional attachments in certain cases, but none of it ever worked out because _everything_ had to be fixed when it came to the real world.

 

Some of the people with whom he had emotional attachments are now dead.  One of them is currently fighting on the field that used to be used for picnic areas for young lovers and playgrounds for youthful humans, and Stiles can’t help but feel cold.  It could have turned out better.

It _should have_ turned out better.

  
Today, now, Stiles is standing on that same field—the one that had so much potential—under a murky gray sky.  He shivers, pulling his tattered sweatshirt a little bit tighter around him.  Around him, there are claws and knives and guns of all different sizes, stocked with different kinds of bullets.  There's a fire at one end of the field, electricity zapping through the veins of enemies at another end.  Stiles is here, at a position nearer to the edge than to the middle, and he is frozen.  All around him, there is war.    
  
He sees Scott fighting for his life, red eyes laser beams in the caliginous gloom.  God, Scott.  Scott, who would never have hurt even an ant before this mess.  Scott, good, lovely, loyal Scott, who always worked with a plan.  Scott never deserved any of this.  He would have turned out normal if it had never happened.    
  
And then there’s Derek, who is fighting alongside Scott, at the moment.  Derek, throughout the years, has gotten better at fighting, and his eyes are back to crimson—just like Scott's.  Derek has witnessed death far too much in his life, and now, he's going to experience it.  They all are.  
  
They had a choice.    
  
They didn't have to go through with this—they could have hidden.  It wouldn't have helped the problem, and innocent lives would have been at risk.  They knew that it was the only way to end this—they know that it is.  There's no other way to have it.  
  
Everyone agreed to be a part of it, too—all of the remaining pack members, both human and not, the pack’s allies, and even the hunters—led by Chris Argent, who, of course, has become accustomed to Scott and his pack.  Everyone is a part of it, and everyone knows that it’s a suicide mission. 

 

Despite everything, they tread on.  They fight.

 

Everyone is screaming, shouting vile words at one another, punching each other’s teeth out.  They’re emptying the bullets into the chests of each other, impaling one another’s organs with jagged knives and claws that tear open wounds, the skin around these places creasing, folding in on themselves, shriveling, clinging onto exposed insides.

 

There's something poetic in the way they're about to die: guns blazing, alphas roaring, fires raving.  Everyone involved is wholly and utterly into it, entire bodies in motion, and here Stiles is, standing on the sidelines, feeling useless.  

 

And maybe that's what humans like Stiles are—useless.  Because sure, he was useful whenever anyone needed help when it came to lore and research, but it wasn't like Allison was ever useless.  Allison was never useless because she came from a family of hunters, so she was a different type of human.  Even Danny, who learned about werewolves later on, was never useless.  The same had held true for the sheriff and Melissa—they were never useless.  There was only Stiles who was.

 

And he still is.  He can't fight, not now, with his right arm—his dominant arm.  He has broken it so many times that it has stopped healing properly, so the only things he can really do with that arm is lift his fork or spoon when he's about to eat or, on a good day, brush his teeth.  It's difficult for him to do anything, so he tends to avoid it.

 

The more he thinks about it, the more pressured he is to just run into the battlefield and fight; because if he's going to die, he might as well die fighting for something—for someone, for a lot of someones—he loves.  He has yet to die on the sidelines, anyhow, and he'd rather die in action than caught by a sniper on the edge.

 

Stiles takes a deep breath in and clenches his fists, but his pulse remains the same.  None of his pack members pay any mind.  

 

"Scott," he says from his place, "tell my dad I love him.  I'll see you later, buddy."

 

Stiles sees the line of Scott's body tense up even further, and as soon as his opponent is a bit of the ways out of reach, he looks over at Stiles and yells, screams.  Stiles doesn't listen.  He charges into the middle of the field with an open heart and wet eyes, and he attacks whoever he can get his hands on.  

 

He wrings his arms around the neck of a wolf, despite the scorching pressure he feels in his right, and maybe he isn't so useless, after all.  The wolf's neck snaps easily, and its entirety falls to the ground with a thud.  Another werewolf comes running closer to Stiles, but the human has become more agile over the years, and he evades the attack of the wolf.  He kicks the legs out from under his opponent and the werewolf falls to the ground, growling, hissing at Stiles.  Stiles sees a glint in the corner of his eye, and, without taking his gaze off of the downed werewolf, picks the object up with his right hand; it's a long knife, more a sword than anything, and Stiles tosses its handle into his left and plunges the wolfsbane-infused metal into the neck of the werewolf and drags it down its body.  There's blood and there are guts spilling out of the torso of the werewolf, and its skin is shredded.  Stiles moves on. 

 

He kills as many as he can—slicing them up, kicking them out, stabbing their eyes until they break.  He's covered in blood, in guts, anger, and death, but he never gives up.  He never stops fighting.

 

At some point, Stiles bumps into Scott's alpha form.  Stiles turns around, knife raised, until he realizes who it is, and the two of them stare at each other, unblinking.  Scott transforms back into a human, and he sets a hand onto Stiles' shoulder, reeling him in.  The two of them squeeze each other, ragged breaths coming from either side, and Stiles chokes.  He squeezes harder, tears coming down his eyes, and Scott exhales.

 

"Later, Stiles.  I'll see you soon."

 

Scott lets go.  Another werewolf comes to challenge him, and he looks at Stiles, showing a tight-lipped smile and nodding, before shifting back into his alpha form and roaring.  He manages to kill the other wolf.

 

Something massive moves in the corner of Stiles' eye, and he whips around to dodge the bloodied claws coming toward his cheek.  The wolf snarls at Stiles, and Stiles' frown deepens at her.  They circle each other, legs bent, bodies tipped forward, and Stiles moves toward her.  She slashes him in the leg, and he collapses; he stabs her in foot with his knife, and she roars, kicking Stiles.  There's a sharp sting that runs through his bones, and it paralyzes him.  

 

He can't move.

 

The wolf beats him.  

 

She could easily kill Stiles with one slash, but she takes her time—time that she doesn't have.  She slowly, excruciatingly so, drags her clawed hands over Stiles' ribcage, digging them deeper and deeper until she's scraping bone.  Stiles screams.  She continues. 

 

There's blood on her hands—Stiles' blood—and she's smirking.  Stiles' eyelids slip shut.  His breathing is ragged when the werewolf's hands get too close to his heart, her cold fingers brushing over the exposed skin under his ripped sweatshirt.  He hears her laugh, but he doesn't open his eyes to look at her—he can't.  He's slipping, and he knows he won't be able to come back, knows that he can't, not anymore.

 

The fingers on his chest retract, and he hears a scream, followed by a snap, a snarl.  The fingers don't come back.

 

A heavy weight kneels next to him, dragging his head up into their lap, but Stiles hardly feels it.  He's numb, and he can't move, and he can't open his eyes.  Large, warm hands grab on to his, and he doesn't realize that he's whimpering until a voice coaxes him with soft hushes.  One hand lets go of his and makes it way to his forehead, his hair.  A voice comes, soft, broken, needy.

 

"I'm sorry."

••• 

When he comes to, there is a buzzing and the scent of latex, and he doesn't know where he is.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (Special thanks to [Sam](http://mylonelycastiel.tumblr.com/) for looking over this for me.)


End file.
